And then I tell her everything that follows, including the night in my hotel room. Diana does not interrupt. That makes it worse. I do not dramatize it. I do not soften it. I do not give Diana the version that protects me from feeling foolish.
“I slept with him,” I say.
Diana exhales once, very quietly.
I keep going before she can speak.
“This happened before my Maison Holt reservation,” I say.
“Before I had any professional contact with him. Before I knew he was Damien Holt. He didn’t know I was Serena Cole. He didn’t know I wrote for Palate. He didn’t know I had a reservation under S. Bennett. At least, not when we met.”
Diana’s voice is calm when she asks, “When did you know?”
“During the meal,” I say.
“Third course. I saw him at the pass.”
“And he recognized you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t come to the table,” I say.
“He didn’t stop service. He didn’t alter the official tasting menu.”
Diana catches the wording immediately.
“Official tasting menu?”
I look at the card again.
“He sent one additional course after the cheese course. No explanation. It wasn’t on the menu.”
“What was it?”
“Fish. Peas. Fennel. Citrus. Tarragon.”
“Tarragon,” Diana says.
“Yes.”
Diana is silent long enough for the hotel room to become too loud around me. A scooter passes below. Someone laughs on the street. My coffee continues cooling beside my hand.
Finally, Diana says, “Did that additional course affect your assessment of the tasting menu?”
“No,” I say. “I noted it separately. It was technically sound, but I won’t use it as rating evidence.”
“Good,” Diana says.
“Did anything about the official meal change after he recognized you?”
“Not that I could tell.”
